


Marble Made Man

by ariadneslostthread



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Fever, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Sickfic, Sneezing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-07
Updated: 2013-12-27
Packaged: 2017-12-25 22:44:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 18,348
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/958465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ariadneslostthread/pseuds/ariadneslostthread
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for a prompt challenge: The day before an important rally, Enjolras falls ill. His friends force him to stay home from the rally, and as they don't want him left alone, they leave Grantaire as his caretaker.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. And there it is...

**Author's Note:**

> Written as part of prompt challenge along with chainsaw_poet, MeMeMe and Re_Repeat, and prompted by my lovely fandom spouse, KChann88. 
> 
> This is my result.

And there it is. The first sneeze. Only one, for now, but Combeferre has been expecting that sneeze like the full stop to a sentence.

Paris has frozen. Overnight it seemed the cool but mild days, a last vestige of the rapidly departing autumn, gave way to bitterly cold and biting winter winds.

It is only a matter of days into the cold snap that he hears it; the tell-tale edge to Enjolras' voice, the tinge of pink to his cheeks, nose and eyes which never quite fades away enough to be attributed to the cold air out of doors.

As ever, Enjolras is valiant, and carries on regardless, clearing his throat and pushing away the headache which no doubt plagues him.

He is good at it, Combeferre will give him that, and he believes for a while that it is only he who notices these subtle and carefully hidden signs. But he finds he should give their friends more credit, as he sees the concerned glances thrown towards Enjolras as he sniffs into the back of his wrist for the third time in as many minutes. The glances eventually turn to include him, eyes wide and eyebrows raised as if questioning him, ‘well, aren't you going to do anything?' the glances ask.

But Combeferre does nothing, he knows how the game works as well as they do and it is one of waiting now. So he watches and waits, his unending patience stilling his hand when he itches and aches to go to his friend and swaddle him in every blanket they own as he shifts in his seat to hide another shiver, though he is sitting quite close to the blazing fire in the Musain. He cannot force this issue; it is not how they work, but he begins to prepare, full in the knowledge of what is to come.

As Enjolras' shivers turn so violent and visible they trigger a chill in Combeferre's own bones, and the sneezes start to come in twos and threes a seed of doubt begins to grow in his belly. He wonders whether he will have to step in; Joly brings it up under his breath as they sit, watching Enjolras speak on their latest plans, listening to the edge in his voice become a true hoarseness no amount of discreet coughs in his fist can shake away.

Joly is concerned, Courfeyrac's eyes glisten with worry and his usual humorous heckles are mild and forced, the others continue their dance of glances between Enjolras and Combeferre, and now Joly. Combeferre presses Joly's hand in reassurance. Tonight then.

The meeting dissolves, and he and Enjolras part ways to carry out various errands of the day and Combeferre wonders how best to breach their unspoken agreement.

As it turns out, he doesn't need to.

He's arrived home first, settled now on the sofa with that day's paper spread over his lap. He looks up briefly when he hears the door and sees Enjolras sighing with relief to be home and out of the invasive Parisian cold air, leaning back against the door to push it closed. It is when he speaks that Combeferre realises he shouldn't have doubted his friend. Give him time, and he will come to him.

"Combeferre?" He says, hoarse and sounding so unlike himself.

"Enjolras?" Combeferre says, looking up from the paper with a frown, "What's the matter?"

Enjolras shakes his head, ducking it for a moment so Combeferre can't see his face. When he looks up it is with sad, shy, almost apologetic smile.

"I'm really not feeling quite myself."

"Oh." Combeferre says, mouth dropping to mimic the sound with his lips; his voice sounds even hoarser that it had earlier. "Come here."

He folds the paper and puts it down, reaching up for Enjolras' hand and tugging him down to sit beside him on the sofa.

Gently sweeping loose tendrils of hair back from Enjolras' face, paler than it ought to be Combeferre can clearly see now, he presses the inside of his wrist against Enjolras' forehead. And sure enough, there it is, the heat he knew he'd feel there.

"Rather warm, I’m afraid." He murmurs, returning the apologetic smile. 

Enjolras nods, a blush colouring his cheeks, exaggerating the slight flush there.

"Off to bed with you, please. I'll fetch you some tea." Combeferre says, getting to his feet and patting Enjolras' knee.

"You don't need to do that."

Combeferre merely turns to look over the rims of his glasses at Enjolras, still sitting on the sofa, another blush rapidly flooding across his skin.

"Thank you." He murmurs quietly, grateful and touched as ever by Combeferre's willingness to drop everything to look after him, simply because he's feeling a little under the weather.  
Combeferre smiles, heart swelling with affection for his friend, so often stoic and strong and unbreakable, so grateful of the simple comforts Combeferre desperately wants to bestow on him.

"Go on." He says kindly. "To bed."

Enjolras nods and gets up, shivering slightly as he crosses the room. Combeferre watches him for a moment, letting himself in through his bedroom door, fondness and concern mingling in his chest, before turning to seek out hot water for tea.

Enjolras has done as bid once he returns, changed and sitting up in bed, handkerchief clutched in one hand, a book in the other. It's adorable and worrying in one muddled package; he usually has to chide and cajole at least a little before Enjolras will allow himself to be put to bed and coddled, but today, he has gone willingly, almost eagerly and Combeferre hopes it's not an indication of the severity of this cold to come.

He chuckles though, pushing away the anxiety for now, and lifting the book from Enjolras' hand, and closing it with a snap. Enjolras' soft noise of protest assuages his concern slightly, so he takes a seat on the bed handing Enjolras one of the two cups he carries.

Enjolras takes a sip, savouring it, eyes closing and hands wrapping around the cup for it's warmth.

"Feeling chilled?" Combeferre asks.

"A bit." Enjolras replies, shivering still. Combeferre gets up to fetch another blanket and drape it around Enjolras' shoulders.

Enjolras gives him an appreciative look as he leans forward and lets Combeferre tuck the thick blanket around him.

Combeferre lightly touches the backs of his fingers against Enjolras forehead again, as he still shivers despite the blanket and the healthy fire burning in the grate.

Combeferre himself wears only his waistcoat and shirt and is comfortable in the warm room, but feels the heat radiating from Enjolras none the less through his touch.

He purses his lips and looks into Enjolras' eyes, scrutinising him.

"That's the start of a fever alright."

"I thought as much." Enjolras says with a thin smile and sad sigh.

Combeferre covers his free hand with his own. "Just a cold, I'm sure. It is that time of year after all."

Enjolras nods, "It's turned bitterly cold. I have felt...under the weather, since it turned." He smiles briefly at his own pun. "I had hoped it was nothing, but, alas..."

"You always do. I have suspected for a few days, I'll admit." Enjolras blushes deeply and ducks his head. 

"I'm sorry, I had thought I'd been discreet."

"You are strange, my friend, to even think you need to be discreet." Combeferre replies with a soft laugh. "But you have come to me now, and I'll see you well in no time."

Enjolras doesn't reply but gives Combeferre a sincere and heartfelt smile of thanks, before a violent shiver travels up his spine and he can't help make a soft sound of displeasure.

Combeferre presses the hand he still covers with his own in sympathy. "Drink your tea, it'll help." 

Enjolras takes a long drink from the cup, and it does help, heat coursing through him as he swallows, but it does not warm him quite so much, nor quite so deeply as Combeferre's palm pressed against his own hand. 

"Thank you for looking after me."

"Thank you for finally letting me."

Enjolras blushes slightly, fiddling with his cup. "I'm sure I'll feel better by the rally tomorrow."

"We'll see."

"I will. It's an important. .."

"I know how important tomorrow is, but your health comes first."

Enjolras shakes his head, "The revolution waits for..."

"I'm stopping you right there." Combeferre says. "Whatever you like to think, your health does come before the cause. The revolution can and will wait for you. We shall see about your attendance tomorrow."

Enjolras looks mutinous and opens his mouth to object but is silenced by Combeferre's finger against his lips. 

"Hush. You'd better rest your voice if you've any chance of being able to speak at the rally tomorrow. I don't like the sound of you at all."

Enjolras sighs and capitulates with a nod, looking miserable and disheartened. Combeferre takes his other hand, speaking softly. "I'm not saying no absolutely. I'm saying we'll see in the morning."

Enjolras nods again, somewhat mollified and now religiously heeding Combeferre’s advice to rest his voice.

"Now you rest up and I'll read to you until you fall asleep, hmm?"

Instead of another nod Enjolras cups Combeferre's jaw in one hand so he looks down at him, his lips clearly forming the words 'Thank you.'

"You're entirely welcome. Now. .. let’s see what Le Moniteur has to say for itself..."

Enjolras smiles and shifts further down in bed, settling himself to listen to Combeferre read, and provide commentary on the most recent edition of Le Moniteur. It is peaceful and companionable, and even though he’s feeling rather ill, Enjolras would rather be nowhere else.

“…’The people of Paris, meanwhile, listen and laugh, and the sad and serious endeavour to enlist their passions on the side of the Peers passes harmless and unheeded. "An owl," says the fable, "which for a long time’…”

“HeptsCHOoo!”

“Bless you,” Combeferre deviates seamlessly from his prose, with a quick glance at Enjolras before resuming. “…’had been the terror of a village, in whose lonely steeple he had taken up his abode, and whence he was wont every night to send forth his shrill notes, grew at length so vain of his powers, that nothing’…”

“eh..eh…ehTSchshhew. Apologies.”

Combeferre smiles and ducks his head, negating the apology as he hands Enjolras a handkerchief. “Bless you again… ‘would serve him but he would try them by day-light. Accordingly, one fine morning, when all the villagers were making holyclay, he perched himself on the highest branch of his ivy dwelling, and began to scream with all his’…””

“Hh…Hyyyyxcsh! Excuse be.”

This continues for some time before Combeferre sighs and stops again, folds the paper, sets it down on the bed and removes his glasses. “I think that’s enough of that for this evening.”

“Doh…doh, condtindue, blease…” Enjolras mumbles from beneath a handkerchief.

Combeferre smiles and shakes his head. “No, no. Still feeling cold?” he asks, as another shiver visibly runs through Enjolras. 

He nods, still tending to his nose. 

“I think I ought to give you a dose of Dover’s Powder,” Combeferre says thoughtfully. “Warm you up, see if we can’t chase this cold away before it takes hold.” He says, eyeing Enjolras’ pale face and increasingly red nose. “Though I feel it is perhaps too late for that.” He adds, running a finger tenderly along a flushed cheek.

“I detest Dover’s Powder.” Enjolras grumbles, under his breath, as Combeferre leaves to fetch his medicine bag and an assortment of supplies. 

“It’ll make you feel better. It is worth a try.” Combeferre replies, returning to the room and bending over the fire to stoke it into a small inferno. “Come on, up you get…”

 

Fifteen minutes later finds Enjolras sitting on the edge of his bed, a heap of blankets around his shoulders and his feet in a basin of hot water up to his ankles. Sweat beads at his hairline and along the bridge of his nose now, and the shivering has abated only to be replaced by frequent yawns.

“Feeling warmer?”

“Yes,” Enjolras replies, chuckling softly and passing his wrist under his nose. “But it’s baking by dose rud.” 

Combeferre echoes his laugh and passes him another handkerchief, turning away as he blows his nose.

“That should do it then…here…” He sets a towel over his lap and seizes one of Enjolras’ feet, drying it, and then it’s fellow, vigorously. 

Enjolras blushes, and squirms as it tickles but doesn’t pull away. 

“Thank you.” He whispers, watching Combeferre as he’s bundled back into bed properly and blankets piled on top of him. “I’m certainly warm enough now, thank you, Combeferre.” He says, laughing hoarsely again, amused. 

“Can’t be too careful.” Combeferre says, adding a final blanket and turning to mix a powder into water in a glass. “Drink up.”

Enjolras pulls a face, eyeing the medicine, but downs it at the severe look Combeferre levels at him, mouth twisting at the taste.

"Time for sleep, I think." Combeferre announces as Enjolras yawns again. He nods in agreement shifting down in the bed and turning on his side. "Have you got handkerchiefs under your pillow?"

Enjolras nods sleepily, eyes already falling shut. 

Combeferre indulges himself and reaches over to gently brush Enjolras' hair back from him face, receiving a small smile in return.

“Sleep well, I’m sure you’ll feel better in the morning.” 

It is abjectly clear Enjolras does not feel better in the morning…


	2. A Fit of Fainting

It is abjectly clear Enjolras does not feel better in the morning. Aside from having listened to him cough in wretched fits throughout the night, getting up twice himself to fetch water and persuade Enjolras to take a syrup, he looks terrible. Combeferre raises an eyebrow as he emerges from his room the next morning, pale and drawn, white and flushed in one countenance.

"Good morning." His voice is low and gravelly. It hurts Combeferre to hear him. 

"Oh no. Absolutely not. No. No. No. Back to bed." 

“I cannot. The protest is in a few hours I…” Enjolras protests in barely more than a whisper. A determined whisper, but a whisper none the less.

“You’ve lost your voice man!”

“Just a slight hoarseness. It will pass with a little…” He trails off, one hand reaching for the back of a chair to steady himself. “…breakfast.”

“You cannot possibly feel well enough…” 

"I am fine. I slept well and I feel much restored." Enjolras insists hoarsely, but makes no move to ready himself for the day either, but stands looking rather torn. 

"Forgive me, if I beg to disagree. Your colour is much too high and I would wager you're feeling light headed." It is not much of a wager; Enjolras is swaying slightly where he stands. 

"I..." He begins, but fails to give any proper reply. 

"Yes?" When nothing coherent materialises Combeferre sighs, and has to laugh at Enjolras' utterly perplexed expression; he is clearly caught between what must be an overwhelming urge to lie down and an equally, for Enjolras at least, overwhelming urge to carry on as normal. 

"Oh Enjolras..." Combeferre breathes, catching sight of the fever in his eyes. "Far be it for me to insist you do anything you don't want to, but I implore you now..." 

Enjolras nods faintly, he is trembling slightly and says, quite weakly, a far cry from the attempt at health moments before, "I think...I think I ought to lie down."

He sways for a moment, shakes his head to dispel the dizziness, and then faints entirely. 

Combeferre is across the room in a heartbeat and catches Enjolras under the arms before he can hit the floor. 

"What's going on? " Courfeyrac's voice comes from the doorway.

"Ah Courfeyrac. What timing." Combeferre says, finding from this position it’s quite impossible to move or lift Enjolras on his own. "If you would be so kind as to take his legs..."

Courfeyrac, somewhat baffled, obligingly lifts Enjolras' legs at the knees and they lift him onto the sofa. 

"He fainted." Combeferre explains as he rests Enjolras' head onto a cushion. 

"I can see that. How long has he been like this? "

"Unconscious? About 30 seconds. Went down just before you walked in. He finally told me he felt ill last night."

Courfeyrac squeezes next to Enjolras on the sofa and presses his palm to his forehead. "Combeferre. ...he's burning up."

Combeferre sighs and sits down too. "I know. He was running hot last night but nothing like this."

"He can't give the speech at the rally today like this..."

"Precisely what I was trying to convince him of before you arrived. He's almost completely lost his voice."

"Oh poor Enjolras. I thought he might be taking cold for the past few days but..."

"He'll be alright. Don't fret, Courfeyrac. The fever is rather high but he'll be fine."

"What do we do then? Do we try to wake him? "

The point becomes moot as Enjolras eyelids flicker and he regains consciousness, confusion apparent in his blue eyes. 

"Oh. Courfeyrac. Hello. When did you get here?" He whispers hoarsely. 

Courfeyrac winces to hear him. "About the time you fainted, my dear fellow."

"I didn't faint..." Enjolras objects before frowning up at them. "Did I?"

"I'm afraid so." Combeferre confirms from behind Courfeyrac. "We were just. ..ah... discussing your attendance at the rally today. You were rather foolishly insisting you were in any state to attend, despite evidence to the contrary."

Enjolras continues to frown in confusion, lips silently repeating Combeferre's words in an attempt to get his fevered mind to comprehend them. 

"In short, you're much too unwell to be going anywhere and are confined to bed until further notice." Courfeyrac translates for him. Beside him, Combeferre nods fervently.

Enjolras' gaze shifts sluggishly to Courfeyrac. 

"But. .. today... the rally. ..the speech."

"We know the speech. We've drilled you in it enough to know it by heart."

"I admit I'm not feeling too well but I shall be fine for a hot drink and a little breakfast." Enjolras implores them, attempting to sit up. "I must go."

"You must stay in bed and rest."

"No. ..I...please. Let me give the speech." 

"Enjolras...you've lost your voice. I can tell how it pains you to even whisper. How can you deliver your usual stirring oration like this? "

Enjolras' jaw works for a moment, mind searching for a solution. He swallows to speak and is unable to suppress the grimace of pain and his hand goes unbidden to his throat. "Fine." He cedes. "But I must be there in another capacity...I must be of..."

"If we are in the business of bargaining then let me make this one. If you can make it to the door unaided, you can go. If not..." Combeferre suggests, waving away the alarmed looked Courfeyrac gives him.

Enjolras doesn't reply but pushes himself upright on shaking arms determination writ in his features and the look he gives them. Courfeyrac and Combeferre stand to give him space to get to his feet; a precarious affair. 

He takes a few steps towards the door before folding, quite neatly and slowly at the knees, into a dead faint. This time it is Courfeyrac who makes it to his side in time to catch him leaving Combeferre to scoop up his legs and deposit him back to the safety of the sofa. 

Thankfully it doesn't take him long to come round, just long enough to tuck a blanket over him and apply a wet cloth to his forehead. 

Blinking in confusion once more Enjolras takes in his predicament. 

"Oh." He says. 

"Yes. Oh." Combeferre says with a sad smile. “Courfeyrac, if you would be so good as to seek out Joly and ask him to pass by here, I’d be obliged.”

“Of course.” Courfeyrac responds, already seizing his hat and making for the door before Enjolras can voice his protests.

“Oh no…Ferre, you needn’t send for Joly. It isn’t as bad as all that. Merely a cold.” 

Combeferre looks down at him sympathetically, the backs of his fingers tracing over fever-red cheeks. “It is a little more than a cold, I think. Joly is more advanced in medicine than I; I should like a second opinion.”

“He’ll worry, and there’s no need…”

“I’m worried.”

“But Joly will try to dose me with…”

“Yes, I expect he will give you medicine of some description, but it is intended to make you feel a little better.” Combeferre says taking Enjolras’ hands. “He has the makings of a fine physician, for what my opinion is worth on the matter, so I’d listen to him if I were you.”

“He is an excellent physician, I love him dearly, but he will fuss and…”

“You can cope with a little mothering, Enjolras. Now, let’s get you into bed, have some breakfast and get settled before he arrives, eh?”

Enjolras sways as he sits up, vision spinning away sickeningly once again but makes it to his feet with Combeferre’s assistance, who sticks close behind him, one hand hovering over the small of his back as he makes his way towards his bed. 

He’s only two steps away when his knees give up again and he stumbles onto the bed, Combeferre’s hand steadying his fall, with a firm grip around his elbow as he presses two long finger to his temples.

“Head ache?”

Enjolras nods, sniffling miserably as he rights himself.

Combeferre nudges him. “Under the covers, please.”

Enjolras sighs and pushes the covers down so he can slide his legs in. “Happy?”

“Not particularly. Lie back…” Combeferre replies, pushing him further down and tucking him in tightly up to the chest. “You know you can’t go to the rally like this, never mind give the speech.”

Enjolras nods, burying his nose into a handkerchief he produces from under his pillow and looks the picture of misery. 

“There’ll be other rallies.”

Another nod.

“I know you’re upset, but it can’t be helped.” Combeferre says sympathetically. “Breakfast might indeed help. Will you stay put if I leave you for a minute to find us some?”

Enjolras gives him a look. “I apparently can’t walk more than five paces without passing out. I think it is safe to say I’m effectively bed ridden.” He says sardonically. 

Combeferre smiles apologetically and strokes his hair gently, Enjolras closes his eyes as he does so. “Just the fever. It’s your body’s way of telling you to rest. So listen to it.”

“Listening.”

“Good man.”

Enjolras waves a hand at him without opening his eyes.

When Combeferre returns, the makings of breakfast and tea on a tray, Enjolras seems to have fallen asleep, lying limp against his pillows and breathing steadily, lips slightly parted. He looks peaceful enough, so Combeferre lets him be and opens the paper Courfeyrac had brought with him that morning.

Whether he was truly asleep or not soon becomes moot as Enjolras starts suddenly into a sneezing fit, leaning forward over his bent knees, face buried in a handkerchief he holds in both hands. 

He turns to look at Combeferre helplessly, in a break in the sneezing as he sets the tray down on the nightstand. Enjolras sneezes once more, looks apprehensive and then stops, flopping back against the pillows. 

“Bake it stop?” He asks plaintively, eyes watering.

“I would if I could, but I haven’t yet found a cure for sneezing.”

“Could you hurry up?”

“I’ll try.” Combeferre says, smiling and shifts himself from the chair back into his more accustomed position on the edge of the bed. He tugs his own handkerchief from his pocket and gently wipes Enjolras’ eyes. “But I can try to make you feel better.”

“How?”

“Tea. For a start. And this…” He stands up, Enjolras’ eyes on him as he sets the tray in the centre of the bed, then climbs on himself, settling himself back against the headboard next to Enjolras. “Here…” he says, holding his arm up.

Enjolras gives him a small, shy smile and shuffles over to rest his head against Combeferre’s shoulder. 

“Better?”

“A bit.” He sniffles, pressing his wrist to his nose. 

“Blow your nose.” 

Wearily, Enjolras does so.

“Here…drink…” Combeferre hands him a cup of tea. Enjolras does so. 

“Now eat.”

Enjolras takes the bread handed to him with a smile. 

“You’re looking after me again.”

“I’ll always look after you. Now eat your breakfast.”

 

Courfeyrac returns in short order with Joly, Bossuet (who are, of course, together as usual) and also Grantaire in tow. 

Joly immediately makes for Enjolras bedroom and finds Enjolras and Combeferre both lying on the former’s bed, Enjolras tucked under Combeferre’s arm, the covers drawn to his chest, holding a broadsheet newspaper between them. The move they make to turn the page, is well practiced and smooth which makes Joly smile before clearing his throat to announce his presence.

The paper crinkles and Combeferre’s glasses appear over the top, along with Enjolras’ nose, pink and pressed to a handkerchief that Enjolras has clutched in his free hand. He sees Joly and tries to sit up but Combeferre pulls him back down and tugs the paper away from him. 

“Lie down, you.”

“Still arguing that he’s in any sort of state to attend this rally?” Joly asks, eyebrows raised, coming to stand at the end of the bed.

Combeferre smiles wryly. “No. He’s capitulated; I think we might have won this battle.”

Enjolras thwacks him, without much force, with the back of his hand, and sneezes.

“Oh dear,” Joly murmurs, taking a seat on the edge of the bed. “As bad as that?”

“We’ve had two and a half fainting spells already this morning. And rather a lot of sneezing.” Combeferre explains.

“Two and half?” 

“The last time was more of a swoon.”

“Combeferre…” Enjolras objects, blushing.

Joly winces at the sound of his voice. “Oh you don’t sound very well at all. Sore throat?”

Enjolras nods, looking rather upset.

Joly looks worried and bites his lip. “May I…” He brushes Enjolras hair back away from his ears and leans forward with a frown. “Show me your tongue?”

Enjolras looks confused but complies; he is used to Joly’s foibles.

“Joly?” Combeferre asks, head tipped quizzically.

“There’s been an outbreak of scarlet fever; it often first presents with a sore throat, and the rash begins behind the ears.”

Enjolras turns wide, alarmed eyes up at Combeferre. “Scarlet fever? But I had it when I was a child…I remember…it was awful, and my mother had all of my things burnt…I…”

Combeferre squeezes his shoulders, shooting a look at Joly. “You don’t have scarlet fever, Joly is just being overzealous.”

Joly presses his hand and nods, face apologetic. “I prefer the term cautious, actually. I am sorry though, for scaring you, I didn’t realise you’d already had it. I was nine, and I agree, absolutely awful.”

Enjolras smiles weakly, “Sorry, I’m feeling rather strange, at the moment.”

Joly presses his hand against Enjolras forehead. “I’m not surprised, that’s a nasty fever you’re running. No wonder you fainted. Can you sit up for a minute so I can listen to your chest?” 

Enjolras sits up with a little moan, throwing Combeferre a grateful glance when he stacks a few pillows behind him then pushes him down into them.

Joly tuts and tsks and mutters to himself while he examines Enjolras, listening intently to his chest and looking at his throat.

He sits back, eyes giving Enjolras one last lookover. “A chest cold, for certain. Plus catarrah of the larynx; hence the laryngitis. And a high fever to top it off.” He folds his arms with a sigh and an aplolgetic smile. “I’ve a few medicines here…I know you despise them, but it is to help you feel better. But, there’s not much else to be done but to rest up, and you’ll be back on your feet in a week or two.”

“A week?” Enjolras says faintly.

“Or two.” Joly confirms. “Doctor’s orders. Stay in bed, stay warm.” He looks over to Combeferre. “I can stay, or would you prefer to?”

“No!” Enjolras says firmly, struggling to sit up. “No. If I am not to be there then you both must be. Joly, you need to…”

“Enjolras, calm down. We both know what we need to do. But you cannot be left alone, not with your temperature as high as it is.” Combeferre says gently, resting his hand on Enjolras’ arm. 

Enjolras is insistent. “I’ll cope. You must go. Both of you. Promise me…” he breaks off, coughing into the crook of his elbow, Combeferre’s hand a soothing, familiar presence on his back that he will certainly miss, but it is imperative that he attend this rally.

“We promise, Enjolras.” Joly says, taking Enjolras’ hand. “We’ll go, but Combeferre is right; you can’t be left alone.”

“If not one of us, or Courfeyrac…” 

Enjolras shakes his head vehemently, a hand on each of their arms. “Courfeyrac must…”

“We know…we know.” Combeferre shushes, pushing him back against the pillows. “Rest easy. If you insist that we are all there in your stead, then who?”

Enjolras falls silent, eyes flicking between the two of them. “Grantaire.” He says suddenly. “Did you say Grantaire was here?”

“He is. He…”

“Well, if you insist on keeping me here, perhaps…perhaps Grantaire might consent to sit with me?” 

“Of course. He’ll certainly not mind, I assure you.” Joly says, patting Enjolras hand which still grips his arm.

Enjolras looks at him quizzically. Combeferre sighs and reaches out to run his fingers through Enjolras’ hair, pushing it back from his face. “Sit tight, I shall go and ask him.” He says, and gets up, leaving Enjolras with Joly. 

Joly covers Enjolras’ hands where they are twisting together atop the coverlet to break him from his thoughts. “I am sorry you aren’t well. Truly. I’ve looked forward to hearing you speak today, and though I am sure Courfeyrac will do a stellar job, he isn’t you.” Joly says fondly. “Please rest, stay in bed, take the medicines I have here for you and you’ll be back to mesmerising us all with your rhetoric in no time at all.”

Enjolras looks at Joly’s expression, usually so cheerful, but now creased in concern for him and is touched by the sincerity of it. “I will.” He promises. 

Joly nods and gets to his feet, tidying his things away into his bag but leaving the bottles of physic he has already dosed Enjolras with on the nightstand. 

“Joly?” Enjolras’ quiet voice stops him halfway to the door.

“Yes?” Joly says, turning back. 

“Thank you.” Enjolras says seriously.

Joly smiles widely. “There is nothing to thank me for.” He says, returning to Enjolras’ side, and taking his hand to press his lips against it, bringing a soft, genuine smile to Enjolras lips. “Feel better.”

He is only alone for a moment before Courfeyrac’s head appears around the door. 

“Hello. How are you feeling?” He asks, frowning sympathetically at the, what Enjolras assumes to be, the rather pathetic picture he paints.

“I’ll live.” Enjolras says and sighs. “Bed rest. I hate bed rest.”

Courfeyrac smiles in understanding and sympathy and comes over to sit on the bed in the spot Joly had occupied.

“This is absolutely rotten luck. I am heartily sorry.”

“It isn’t your fault, Fey.”

“I am still sorry.”

“You’ll be excellent today. I have every faith.”

“I am not you, though.”

“You don’t need to be. You are you.”

“I’m nervous.”

“You, nervous?”

Courfeyrac nods, and blushes attractively. “I am more at home at a party, talking to small groups, one on one than giving stirring oration. I cannot command a crowd like you.”

“You can, and you have. I have seen you.”

“But you have not seen yourself. You are something to behold, my dear fellow. I do not wish to embarrass you, but you are.”

Enjolras does blush at that but smiles wryly in response. “I can’t command much of anything like this, nor be much to behold.”

“You are still charming and beautiful to me.”

Enjolras snorts derisively, which makes him sneeze and bury his nose in a handkerchief once more. 

“My apologies.” He mutters to Courfeyrac, wiping his nose and moaning softly at the soreness already there.

“No need. I oughtn’t be making you laugh, or keep talking. Just, feel better?”

Enjolras smiles. “I’ll try my best.”

“And I mine.”

“You will be wonderful.” Enjolras adds as Courfeyrac stands to leave, and bend to kiss Enjolras’ hair. 

“I will be wonderful.” He says and flashes Enjolras his best quicksilver grin, and ducks out, passing Combeferre in the doorway. 

“Grantaire has agreed to keep an eye on you. Joly is giving him his marching orders now.”

“I suspect you have given him your own share?”

“You know me too well.” Combeferre admits wryly and comes to sit on the bed once more.

“I do. You will tell me all about the rally tonight, won’t you?” Enjolras asks, pressing his hand imploringly. 

“If you are up to it.” 

Enjolras nods eagerly. “I will be.”

Combeferre smiles a little and lifts his hand to feel his forehead. 

“Not if you don’t rest, you won’t be. Your temperature’s up, I’m worried about…”

“Combeferre.” Enjolras says, taking up his other hand too. “You’re fretting.”

Combeferre pulls himself up short, and smiles ruefully. “I am, aren’t I.”

“Mmm.”

“I can’t help it.”

“I’ll be fine. Grantaire is here. We’ll be fine.”

Combeferre nods, giving Enjolras’ hand a gentle squeeze. “Feel better.”

“How could I do else, with the three of you all wishing me so well.” Enjolras replies shifting to get more comfortable in bed.

Combeferre smiles and leans down to press a kiss to Enjolras’ forehead. “Be good for Grantaire.” He adds as he leaves. 

Enjolras hears them readying themselves to spend the day out on the cold streets of Paris and sighs, heartily wishing he was going with them. Bossuet pokes his head in the door, offering his condolences and more well wishes in one swift delivery and Enjolras is left alone to wonder just how this day is going to go. 

 

It is not precisely how Grantaire imagined his morning panning out, but he is intrigued by notion that he is to be trusted to play nursemaid to Enjolras by Combeferrre, who is curiously protective of Enjolras, Joly, who is openly worrisome about everyone's health and Enjolras himself. 

He blinks in bewilderment as Joly gives him a run down of exactly what is ailing Enjolras and a more thorough set of instructions than Grantaire really thinks is warranted.

“I have left a tonic for the fever, and a syrup for his throat and the cough. He has refused laudanum thus far, but I have left the bottle if the cough is very troublesome. A little hot wine, or tea, should help with his throat and any chills, and you should take some as well, can’t have you taking ill too.” Grantaire nods along with Joly’s – rather long – list of instructions, before his gaze snaps to Combeferre as he joins them towards the end to add his own two sous.

“Keep him calm, and quiet and in bed, if you can. The window is open just a little for ventilation but keep the fire stoked, he should be kept warm.” Combeferre says, wrapping a scarf around his neck. 

‘If you can?’ Grantaire quirks an eyebrow, the man is ill, surely he is not about to attempting to get out of bed.

“His fever is worryingly high, so do try to keep an eye on that…” Back to Joly. 

“He does tend run rather hot when he’s ill.” Back to Combeferre.

“Nothing too much to worry about…” Joly. 

“But, be aware.” Combeferre. 

“You’ll do wonderfully.”

“I have every faith.”


	3. An Unexpected Day for An Unexpected Nurse

By the time Joly and Combeferre have finished briefing him and all have bid Enjolras goodbye it is with some trepidation Grantaire pushes open the door to Enjolras' room. 

He's sitting up in bed, looking pensively at his fingers and as white as the sheets just visible beneath the blankets. Two spots of vivid colour high on his cheeks only further highlights his paleness but despite that he still somehow looks ethereal to Grantaire. 

"Hello." Grantaire says eventually, uncharacteristically nervous. 

Enjolras looks up, eyes bright and deep blue despite the obvious fever he is running. 

"Hello." He whispers hoarsely. 

Grantaire shifts, at a loss for words, an unfamiliar sensation, unlike his usual verbosity. 

"Are you well, Grantaire?" Enjolras asks politely after a long moment of uncomfortable silence but for the sound of his own sniffling. 

Grantaire nods. "Yes, yes. Quite well. And you? "

Enjolras stares at him for a long moment before spreading palms to indicate his bedridden self as answer enough. 

Grantaire mentally tries to hang himself. "Oh. Yes. Of course, my apologies...I..."

"Quite alright."

Another moment of awkward silence but for the frantic and fruitless whirring of Grantaire's brain for something, anything, preferably non-idiotic, to say. 

"You can sit down you know. I don't bite." Waving a hand languidly at the edge bed where the impression left by Joly, Courfeyrac and Combeferre is still visible. 

He really does sound awful, Grantaire thinks, and though the smile Enjolras gives him stirs him finally to action he cannot bring himself to sit upon Apollo's bed, next to Apollo himself, in that revered indentation left by friends far more esteemed than he. Instead he shifts the chair from the corner of the room and takes a seat on that instead. 

"I am sorry you are ill at any rate." Grantaire says, thankful that normal speech seems to have returned to him. 

"It could be worse. Joly was worrying himself about scarlet fever until Combeferre stepped in and I reminded him I'd had it as a child."

"As did I. Rather awful I recall but not quite so awful as small pox."

"You survived small pox?" Enjolras asks with an eyebrow raised. 

"I did, though my father did not. Had you not noticed my pock scarred visage?" Grantaire replies with false levity turning his face this way and that so Enjolras might see better, at once mortified by his ugliness in the face of Enjolras' beauty and rebelling against his own judgement. 

"I had, but never thought it prudent to ask. I am sorry about your father."

Grantaire waves a hand dismissively. "It was a long time ago. He was a rather odious man but as he left me a deal of money I bear him no ill will." 

Enjolras cocks his head at that but doesn't press the issue of his father. "Were you often ill as a child?"

"Alas yes. I think I caught everything going between the ages of 5 and 15."

"Well I hope you shall not catch this from me." Enjolras says gesturing down at himself again. 

"Fear not. My constitution seems to have strengthened since then. In any case, I do not mind. And you? Were you often ill?"

"Thankfully no. I remember scarlet fever and the measles, both mild bouts, but still unpleasant."

"Oh I thought the measles were great fun, after small pox, you see. I recall playing join the dots and two entire weeks reprieve from study was a treat." 

Enjolras gives him a highly disbelieving look before shivering and shifting down under his covers slightly. 

"Grantaire if you wouldn't mind fetching another blanket. I cannot seem to stay warm. There should be one in the armoire, on the left."

"It is what I'm here for." Grantaire replies shooting a concerned look from Enjolras' shivers to the roaring fire in the grate. 

"May I?" He asks holding up a hand after he's spread the blanket over Enjolras.

Enjolras sighs. "I suppose you must."

"I've been left strict orders as to your care. A veritable list of instructions and dos and don’ts and medicines and advice. Your doctors really are quite the worrisome pair." 

"I've no doubt. They mean well."

Grantaire presses his palm to Enjolras' forehead and Enjolras cannot help but let out a soft, but pleasantly shocked moan. He might feel chilled but his cheeks and forehead are burning uncomfortably hot and Grantaire's hand is wonderfully cold. Grantaire snatches his hand back as if burned eliciting a small noise of protest from Enjolras. 

"I'm sorry did I hurt you?"

"Not at all. It was...your hands are cold. It felt. ..it felt nice."

"Oh." Grantaire says feeling a fool. "Here then." He replaces his hand on the hot forehead. 

Enjolras closes his eyes.

"Oh." Grantaire says again. 

Enjolras cracks an eye open to look at him. "What?"

"You're so hot." Enjolras nods against his palm. "I had thought... well I thought Combeferre and Joly might have been overzealous in their concern. Evidently not."

"Much though I am loathe to admit it they are both usually right in these matters." 

“They are wise men.”

“The wisest.”

Silence falls, not precisely awkward but stilted as both of them adjust to the unfamiliarity of the situation; Enjolras, unused to lack of purpose or task and even more so in the face of Grantaire, and Grantaire, thrown by his sudden appreciation that Enjolras is as human as any of them, and liable to sickness.

Enjolras breaks the silence with a long fit of sneezing in which he looks so put out at this intrusion on his dignity Grantaire might have found it amusing were it not for the breathlessness and streaming eyes which followed. 

“Oh…” Enjolras breathes leaning forward against his legs, “Excuse be…” He stops and stretches a hand himself beneath his pillow, feeling for something. “By apologies…I…could you…” he says vaguely, so unlike himself that it takes Grantaire a moment to realise what he is asking and move accordingly, to pass him a handkerchief from the veritable stack, left by Combeferre no doubt, on the nightstand.

Enjolras takes it gratefully, blowing his nose as quietly as he is able and resting his forehead on his knees for a moment. 

“My apologies, Grantaire.” He says, clearer now. “I’m afraid I’m going to be terrible company today.”

Grantaire waves a hand. “You aren’t expected to be. I, on the other hand, am. Here, as I am, to distract you from your sickness. I may prove to be a terrible nursemaid.”

“Well, I do thank you. But don’t feel you have to sit by my bedside the entire day and entertain me.” Enjolras says, sitting back, exhaustion plain on his face now.

“You’d deprive me of my task?”

“Merely attempting to save you from boredom.” He glances over at his bookshelves. “I have books, if you’d like to…but…I am sure you have read them all previously.”

Grantaire nods, as this is likely. “I can read to you, if you’d like. However, I’ve been instructed you’re not to do anything which resembles work or might excite you.”

Enjolras rolls his eyes and mutters something which might be ‘all this fuss over a runny nose’.

Grantaire doesn’t say anything but eyes the deepening colour of Enjolras’ cheeks and the flush which has extended along his neck now with growing concern. 

“Now you see, I am already a terrible nursemaid. You ought to be resting your voice, and I’ve had you chattering away. Joly will have my hide.” Grantaire says casually to disguise his concern, and stands to peruse the bookshelves in the room. “I am not sure what amongst all these could be classed as relaxing however; no Classics or novels of any sort to be had, it is all revolutionary zeal and philosophy, not at all suitable, to my mind.” He muses, mostly to himself, and turns at the faint response Enjolras gives. 

“On the mantle. A small green book.”

Grantaire picks it up and surveys it. “This…” he says, with an inquisitive eyebrow raised in Enjolras’ direction. “This is Prouvaire’s latest anthology.”

Enjolras nods, fidgeting in bed. “Yes. His best yet, to my ear at least.” He settles down and regards Grantaire. “You seem surprised that I have one.”

Grantaire returns to his chair, turning the book over in his hands, wondering how he should reply. “No. I…well, I admit. I did not know you were interested in poetry.”

Enjolras snorts something of a sardonic laugh, which promptly turns to a cough. “It is Jehan’s.” He says simply, then adds. ”I am woefully uneducated and under read when it comes to poetry but not uninterested. Jehan has certainly piqued my interest further.”

“I’ve gotten you talking again.” Grantaire says with a sigh.

Enjolras waves a hand at him, without moving his arm, in a languid, exhausted sort of fashion which is so very different from his usual expressive motions as he speaks. He has closed his eyes, head tipped back onto the pillow behind him.

“Very well.” Grantaire says and clears his throat to begin. 

Grantaire has a pleasing voice when it isn’t roughened by drink, nor dripping with sarcasm or disdain, or mocking as it so often is when speaking at the Musain or Corinth. That, coupled with Jehan’s gentle and sweet words, for Grantaire has selected his lighter pieces, serves well to lull Enjolras into something approaching sleep. He would, indeed, be asleep if it weren’t for the frequency of his coughing, which, try though he might, he cannot suppress and jerks him awake continually. Soon enough they are at a juncture, much as he and Combeferre had been the night before, in which Grantaire would pause, encourage a sip of water or pass him another handkerchief, resume reading, only to have to pause again barely minutes later. 

Grantaire stops entirely and puts the book down on the bed, casting his eyes over the bottles of physic arranged on the nightstand. 

Enjolras opens his eyes when Grantaire fails to continue reading.

“Time to delve into this little pharmacy, I think.”

Enjolras does not look excited by the prospect, but nods wearily and sits up, reluctant but accepting of the inevitable.

The medicine, a syrup, is thick and brown; both of them eye it with distaste as Grantaire pours it out onto a spoon, and hands it Enjolras who sighs and swallows it, suppressing a grimace. 

Grantaire chuckles, “I don’t blame you. I am glad it is not me who must take it. Here, water, to wash the taste away.”

Enjolras drinks gratefully before dropping back against the pillows gratefully, exhausted.

“Should I continue reading? You might drop off to sleep if I adopt a particularly soporific tone?”

Enjolras lips quirk in an approximation of a smile, thanks for the effort Grantaire is making, but doesn’t seem to have the energy for anything more and it worries Grantaire.

He continues reading; Prouvaire’s poetry is rather good, he thinks, though he’s read some of the poems in this selection before, there are ones he has not and he is drawn in. 

“Jehan is wise beyond his years. A sage amongst men.” Enjolras says suddenly. 

“Pardon?” 

“Jehan. He’s remarkable. A true wordsmith. I am in awe of his talent.”

“You have a way with words yourself.” Grantaire says, looking up now at Enjolras. He is still reclining against the pillows, giving the impression that movement is near impossible; lethargy surrounds him like an air, eyes closed and hands uncurled and forgotten about on the counterpane.

“And you. But neither of us compare. My own rhetoric is improved a thousand fold for his assistance.”

Grantaire must make a noise because Enjolras opens his eyes and tips his head a fraction to look him. 

“It’s true. I am merely a voice to his pen.” His voice isn’t slurred, precisely, but slow and deliberate as though Enjolras has to think about every word.

Grantaire frowns, taking in the pink mottling which has spread across Enjolras throat and face now. He stretches a hand out, still hesitant to rest the backs of his fingers against his forehead.

“Dieu, you’re burning up.” He murmurs, dropping his fingers to feel his cheek as well; as equally hot and dry. 

Enjolras doesn’t appear to hear him, though he tips his face into Grantaire’s touch and makes a soft noise in the back of his throat when his hand disappears, then again when Grantaire presses a damp cloth to his cheek.

“Jehan’s poetry is very good.” Grantaire tells him as he presses the cloth to his other cheek, and this compliment makes Enjolras smile. 

“He can fight, you know.” Enjolras drawls, eyes closing. 

“Really?” Grantaire says, eyebrows raised. 

“Mmm. Saw him floor Bahorel once.”

“Bahorel? Our Bahorel? Big shoulders, hands like hams? And Jehan, as willowy a man as I’ve ever seen?” Grantaire asks, incredulous. “You’re delirious.”

“You don’t believe me?” Enjolras says, pressing up against the cloth as Grantaire lifts it to rewet it.

“I didn’t say that. Lie back.” There is an edge to Jehan, he supposes now that he thinks about it.

“He did.” Enjolras insists, opening his eyes to look at Grantaire. “Bahorel is so much more than just a brawler. He does everything as if it’s the last thing he’ll ever do…I admire that.” 

“I know, Enjolras. I know. ” Grantaire says, placatingly as Enjolras tenses to sit up and Grantaire has to press a hand to his shoulder to get him to lie down.

“I’m not delirious.” He says, relenting. “I’m not.” Enjolras says again, and turns his head away abruptly to sneeze and moan. 

“Rest now.” Grantaire says softly.

Enjolras nods and swallows visibly, before being overcome by a coughing fit which leaves his head spinning. 

“Oh…” He moans, closing his eyes and bridging a wavering hand over them.

“Here…”

He cracks his eyes open to see a glass of water wavering in his swimming vision. Murmuring his thanks he takes it gratefully and sips, which soothes his throat but does nothing for the spinning of his head.

“Dizzy?”

“Yes.” Enjolras croaks, his voice decimated even further by this most recent fit; unwilling to risk moving his head and upsetting his vision further. 

“Perhaps you ought to lie down a little more.” Grantaire suggests, standing and removing a pillow from the mound Enjolras has been lying on. “Better?”

“Some.”

“Has the room at least stopped spinning?”

Enjolras glances up at him. It has, indeed, stopped spinning but his vision is unpleasantly blurred and hazy, but he is curious to know how Grantaire knew.

Grantaire’s mouth twists into a wry, familiar smile. “I am well acquainted with a spinning head, the result of self-inflicted over indulgence, as I’m sure you can surmise, but from the odd fever here and there too.” Grantaire tells him, and sets about dampening the cloth before resuming his seat in the chair and pressing the cloth to Enjolras’ face. He continues to chatter as he works, and Enjolras closes his eyes as the cloth travels over his cheeks, then his temples and forehead, eventually his throat, the hollow at its base and then his collar bones where his nightshirt gapes at the collar. The angle Grantaire is at is awkward; he has to twist in his seat and lean over to reach, and his forearm is braced against the bed to keep him from overbalancing. It can’t be comfortable and it really would be better if Grantaire would sit on the bed as Combeferre, Joly and Courfeyrac are wont to do.

“Combeferre does this for me, when I’m ill.” He tells Grantaire by way of explaining this.

Grantaire stills his actions for a moment, looking down, perplexed at him. “And you for him?” He says after a beat, but he doesn’t seem to understand Enjolras’ intent and stays uncomfortably twisted in the chair.

Enjolras nods.

Grantaire smiles and re wets the cloth this time laying it across Enjolras’ forehead. 

“Grantaire?”

“Hmm?”

“Where is Combeferre?”

Grantaire freezes. 

“He’s at the rally, Enjolras.”

“He’s not here.” Whether a question, or a statement, Grantaire is unsure, but the unsteady, confused look in Enjolras’ eyes worries him.

“No.” He says softly, reaching for the cold cloth once more. 

“But he always…” Enjolras begins to insist, before trailing off pressing a hand to his forehead and shaking his head a little. “My apologies,” he says slowly. “I…I’m not sure what came over me just then.”

“The fever, I would believe. It is merely the fever playing tricks with you. Perhaps it is time to rest?” 

Enjolras nods distractedly and shifts down in his bed to lie on his side, facing Grantaire.

And then. 

“But he’s always here when I’m…” Enjolras trails off, blinking up at Grantaire as he shifts to press his hand against his forehead. 

“I know. He’s there in your stead, you recall, while you’re unwell.”

“Oh….I…”

“Shh. Just rest. I’m no Combeferre, nor Joly, and I make for a poor nurse, but I shall have to do and I am here. Just rest easy.” He says softly, mostly for his own benefit but relieved when Enjolras does close his eyes and seem to heed his advice.

"Combeferre’s a genius, Grantaire." Enjolras says suddenly seizing Grantaire’s sleeve. 

"I wouldn't doubt it. " Grantaire replies disconcerted by the frighteningly intense gaze Enjolras has fixed on him, sparklingly clear despite the fever. 

"No... Really. He really is. .. I've never. ..and he. ..I do so love him Grantaire. Genius. He is. Combeferre I mean. You do agree don't you Grantaire? " Enjolras repeats looking so concerned Grantaire might not agree that Grantaire has to bite his lip to keep from laughing. 

"Yes Enjolras. Now hush... you're meant to be resting that voice of yours. " Grantaire comforts him, patting his hand. 

“And Courfeyrac. Fey has the most beautiful spirit. I have never met a person who didn’t like him. Have you? Could such as person exist?”

“I think not.”

“Do you know, it was he that gave me the measles?” Enjolras says, patting Grantaire’s hand. “And I still love him. He is…effervescent.” Enjolras says with a sigh. 

Grantaire cannot help it, he laughs, fever or not it is an apt but comical description of Courfeyrac. “Effervescent? Yes, I can certainly imagine Courfeyrac to be ‘gassy’. Fizzy. Ha.”

Enjolras glares at him, mortally offended on Courfeyrac’s behalf. 

“Sparkling, he is sparkling. I am sorry, I was teasing.” Grantaire says quickly, to placate him. “Measles, huh? You grew up together, I didn’t realise.”

Enjolras nods, tipping his head this way and that on the pillow, searching for the cool spots. “Yes. Our homes were close, our families held a similar social standing,” here, Enjolras curled his lip in disdain. “We were deemed appropriate playmates for each other, both only sons, destined to inherit the ill begotten riches of our ancestors.” He snorts, which makes him cough. Once he’s finished he looks at Grantaire. “If I owe a debt of gratitude to my parents for anything, it is for our shared childhood, and his friendship. Despite the measles.” Enjolras adds and laughs. “We were fifteen. And his sisters, all older, were terrified they’d catch them and be kept away from some silly ball or other, so we were quarantined together. It was still terrible but if you are to have the measles with someone, you cannot wish for a better companion than Courfeyrac.” Enjolras finishes decidedly. 

Grantaire nods sagely. “I shall remember that if I ever decide to get them again.”

Enjolras looks at him warily, quizzically. “You are teasing me.” He says slowly. 

“Not at all.” Grantaire replies, and removes the cloth from Enjolras’ head to change it for a cooler one; Enjolras’ rambling is, indeed, a sign of worsening fever and the cloth had quickly grown warm.

While Grantaire tends to him, Enjolras muses. “He still had his ‘de’ then.”

“Sorry?” Grantaire asks distractedly, taking the opportunity to feel Enjolras’ forehead again. His voice sounds so queer to Grantaire’s ear; hoarse yes, but instead of the crisp, sharp constanants, rich timbre and smooth cadence of words he’s used to, Enjolras sounds almost non-chalant, words languidly dripping from his tongue, slow and laborious.

“His ‘de’. His particle.” Enjolras clarifies giving Grantaire a disparaging look for not keeping up. “Did you know I was to wed one of his sisters?”

Grantaire abruptly ceases daubing Enjolras face, and attempts to avoid swallowing his tongue. “What? I mean…pardon? No. I didn’t.”

“Mmm. Yes. It was meant to ‘unite our two great families’.” However off Enjolras’ voice sounds, Grantaire still detects the sarcastic mimicry of someone who once held sway of Enjolras’ life.

“But you are unwed…what happened?” Grantaire asks, unable to help himself. 

“Hmm? Oh. She married someone else. Met a chap at some ball and fell in love, I believe, put her foot down and refused point blank to even consider me. She’s a Courfeyrac, of course she’d marry for love.”

Grantaire’s jaw works for a few moments. “Um…I’m sorry?”

Enjolras snorts. “Whatever for? I’d sooner marry Courfeyrac himself, besides I’m not sure I recall which sister it was.”

“You are full of surprises today. And entertaining though your revelations are, you are rambling somewhat and I ought to give you a dose of this tonic.” Grantaire says, reaching for the appropriate bottle and a glass.

Enjolras eyes the glass. “But I already took medicine.” He says, put out and reluctant. Grantaire reflects, looking at him, how very young Enjolras seems just now; wide eyes, dewy with fever, cheeks rosy with fever and skin pale, smooth and unblemished. The very antithesis of Grantaire himself.

“This is a different one.” Grantaire tells him patiently and presses the glass into his hand. “To bring your temperature down; Joly shan’t be pleased if you don’t take it.” 

“Joly?” Enjolras says, interest piqued. “Joly was here this morning.”

Grantaire nods. “Yes. He came to look you over. Drink up…” He nudges Enjolras’ hand, in which the glass lists dangerously close to spilling and generally forgotten about. 

Enjolras blinks at it, frowning, but does raise it to his lips with a trembling hand and drinks, a little spilling down his chin.

“Joly is the dearest man I think I know.” Enjolras tells Grantaire seriously. Grantaire nods, half listening and focused on spreading cold cloths over Enjolras’ forehead and chest to cool him down. “He’s an excellent physician. He will be. Hypochondria or not. He fusses so, but his compassion is unrivalled and his focus….he is so…so…” He trails off, smiling fondly and then breaks into giggles. 

Grantaire stops short, moving the cloth he’s dabbing Enjolras’ cheeks with to look at him closer. Giggling. Apollo, giggling. It’s endearing, but terrifying; how high is this fever going to get?

“Oh…Joly is joli.” He says, pressing his fingers to his lips, giggling behind them. “Because he is always smiling, do you see, Grantaire?” He sits up, curling around his legs, dislodging his cloths and shaking with laughter. 

Grantaire recovers himself and cannot help but smile, and eventually break into a laugh himself. “I see, Enjolras. But that is a terrible, terrible pun. I’m not sure I’d even call it pun…”

But Enjolras is still bent over his knees, coughing and laughing in equal measure. Grantaire sighs and rubs his back until he calms down into sporadic hiccups. 

“I suppose I can excuse you, delirium indeed.” Grantaire grumbles.

“Bossuet would have appreciated it.” Enjolras murmurs to his knees.

“Perhaps. Because Bossuet is a kind hearted soul, but with infinitely more wit than you, I’m afraid.”

Enjolras shrugs. “His spirit is admirable. He and Feuilly both are survivors of the first order and I respect them accordingly.”

“Yes, yes.” Grantaire agrees. “Come on, lie back down…”


	4. Enter the Delirium

Despite a hand to his shoulder and soothing words, Enjolras refuses to lie back and picks his head up from its place on his knees to regard Grantaire. “Sometimes…” He begins, and swallows. “Sometimes I am so thankful for you all that…” He breaks off and turns away, pressing his lips into a thin line. 

Grantaire hums comfortingly. “I understand. I know.” He rests a hand and Enjolras’ shoulder. “But you ought to be resting. Lie down, please.”

Enjolras passes his hands over his face in a quick motion and complies, sliding down and pressing his face against the pillow.

Grantaire presses another cloth to his forehead, and picks the discarded one from where it fell onto the bed, and pulls the covers up over Enjolras’ shoulders. “Are you warm enough” He asks, the shivering has at least stopped.

Enjolras nods, eyes finally, blessedly, falling closed yet Grantaire somehow still feels his intensity. "I've seen your paintings Grantaire, don't think I haven't," Enjolras mutters. "You're not so clever at hiding them and Bossuet found them and showed me and they're very good."

"No, no they're..." Grantaire begins; Enjolras might be a far cry from his usual eloquence, but he has a raging fever to excuse him, Grantaire’s awkwardness can only be blamed on his lack of grace concerning anything which might show him in a good light. 

"Don't argue with me Grantaire," Enjolras says. "I could argue with a brick wall, if I tried hard enough."

"You are a brick wall, and I argue with you all the time," Grantaire quips, teasing, glad of the reprieve from the discussion of his paintings. 

“I wish you to show me your paintings yourself, sometime.” Enjolras says, rather weakly, but the phrasing and tone of command turns a request into an imperative and who is Grantaire to deny this man he reveres. 

“Sometime, perhaps, when you are well.” Grantaire cedes, hoping, with a small stab of guilt, that the fever will rob Enjolras of this memory and he will not follow through this request. 

“I should like that. Perhaps….perhaps while I convalesce?” Enjolras counters, his tone now entreating.

Grantaire chuckles. “Oh, I am not sure about that. Some of my paintings are frightfully melodramatic - quite intended to disturb, and I shouldn’t wish to upset your nerves whilst you are so delicate.”

Enjolras very nearly misses what he says entirely, he is taken over with an intense coughing fit which has Grantaire wincing and extending a tentative hand to rub his back, the other to offer a glass of water. Enjolras pushes it away to look sideways at Grantaire, a venemous glare if it weren’t for the streaming eyes and hisses “Delicate?” in a dangerously low tone, as soon as he has taken a breath.

As expected, Enjolras looks immediately affronted and narrows his eyes at Grantaire in a heart stopping glare. Ironically, it comforts Grantaire. A wonderfully familiar fire of frustration and aggravation from those narrowed blue eyes to set him at ease after the strangeness of seeing Enjolras so completely vulnerable; it is good to know the old defences are still simmering there, depleted in their powers somewhat thanks to a runny nose, but present still. As quickly as comfort, contrary a method though it is, comes, a sneering voice in his head sends a wave of guilt over him; the man is ill, and here you are, riling him up, because you are unused to such a situation. 

“I am not delicate.” Enjolras whispers, voice dangerously low for reasons other than illness.

“As a flower, dearest Apollo.”

“You are teasing me.” Enjolras says after a pause, face morphing from an affronted glare to confused insult, “You call me flower in one breath, and god the next. What possesses you? I entreat you, tell me.” 

Grantaire spreads his hands. “And alas, you like neither. You are one, and both and all, all in one. The beauty and delicacy of any bloom, juxtaposed with the glory and fire of a god in one glorious countenance. But like the lily of the valley, the flowers of aconite, daphne and even beloved opium you are beautiful but as deadly as nightshade.” 

Enjolras stares at him. The moment stretches between them, long and uncomfortable for Grantaire who is suddenly afraid he has gone too far; it is one thing to heckle Enjolras from the back of the Musain and receive a dismissive, disdainful glare for his efforts, but here, in his sick room, the man himself in his nightshirt, it is quite another. He already has Enjolras’ full attention; he has no need of impudence and folly to garner even the smallest morsel of attention, however venomous the need of it. Alas, he knows himself well, and he is a creature of habit and this is a groove he has long walked, but looking at Enjolras’ pale face, tinged pink here and there, Grantaire struggles to understand himself at all.

But Enjolras’ expression is not angered, perplexed perhaps and his blue eyes are drilling into Grantaire’s with a piercing potency Grantaire finds admirable in the face of mind befuddling fever. 

“You…” Enjolras begins, and wets his lips. “You are distracting me from the matter at hand. Your art, Grantaire. And no more attempts to change the subject by goading me.”

Grantaire blinks. “Ill you might be, but sharp as ever, I see.”

Enjolras does not break his gaze.

Grantaire sighs. “I will consent to show you my paintings.”

Enjolras lips quirk into a victorious smile. “Soon?”

“Soon.” Grantaire promises. “Here…drink…” He adds, offering the glass again.

This time Enjolras accepts the glass, but his hands tremble so that his grip is unsure and the glass tips perilously close to upending over Enjolras lap.

“Steady…” Grantaire murmurs, seizing the glass before the last moment and bringing it to Enjolras’ lips. “Better?” He asks when Enjolras has drunk his fill and flopped back against his mound of pillows.

A little water has spilled over Enjolras chin once again. Before he quite realises what he is doing Grantaire reaches out, handkerchief in hand, to wipe it away. 

“See, even the prospect of my art has you in a state. Let us not imagine what the canvases themselves might do to you. And what Combeferre and Joly, and the rest, shall do to me if I return you to their care in a worse state than which I received you. You must rest.”

Enjolras throws him a sideways look, not venomous but wry, amused almost.

“In all seriousness now, I have exhausted you, I fear. I think it is time for rest for you, and I will find us the making of lunch.”

Enjolras nods, and closes his eyes. Before he leaves Grantaire quickly presses the back of his hand to Enjolras’ forehead, lingering slightly to thumb a lock of hair away from his face and finally replacing the cool cloth.

Grantaire thinks he has been granted a reprieve of a sort; Enjolras is quiet and quiescent for a long stretch and the mottled flush has succumbed to Grantaire’s ministrations with the cloth.

“Grantaire, why were you with Joly and Bossuet earlier?”

Grantaire sighs. Combeferre had warned him that Enjolras didn’t rest well whilst ill, after all.

“I was coming to the rally.” He sees no sense in obfuscating the truth, as he so often does, besides which the fever has rendered Enjolras uncommonly open, he ought to at least return the courtesy.

“Why?”

“Why?” Grantaire turns an incredulous expression towards him. “To hear you speak, of course.”

“But why?” Enjolras repeats, frowning, the fever not helping his confusion. “You do not believe in our cause, you don’t believe…”

“I believe in you.” Grantaire says. 

Enjolras blinks, eyes on Grantaire’s but clouded and slightly unfocused. “You’ve said that to me before.” He says, slowly, deliberately, thoughtfully.

“It is true.”

“What does it matter whether you believe in me, or anyone else, if you do not believe in the cause why would you…”

“It does matter. It matters a great deal.” Grantaire says firmly. “I do not believe the world will change, I do not believe humanity capable of it. There will always be a hierarchy, and as such, there will always be a top, and a bottom. However noble and good in intent the top thinks itself to be, it will always oppress those below. It is the way of people. Corruption is in our nature. But you, you are different. I don’t believe the world can change. But if it could, I believe you would be the one to do it.”

“I am like any other man.” Enjolras says, rubbing his forehead with the edge of his hand as his headache intensifies from concentration.

“No. You are not. You, above all men, could not be corrupted.”

Enjolras snorts at that. “So you believe Combeferre to be corrupt, or would become corrupt in a position of power. Do you believe that of all of our friends, of Courfeyrac, who loves all equally and freely. Of Jehan’s whose soul is pure and beautiful. Of Joly? Bossuet? Or of Feuilly perhaps, after the hardships he has endured. Bahorel? Bahorel is many things, but he is determined to see this fight through. He would not sully that victory by oppressing anyone, for all his strength and power.” Enjolras says, growing more impassioned with each mention of his friends. 

“Of course not.” Grantaire replies, a hint of desperation edging into his tone. “I respect all of them as surely and as much as you do; I hold all of you above and beyond reproach. But I cannot believe in the good will of all men as you do.”

“Why are we so different?”

Grantaire sighs. “Honestly? I do not know. All I know is, for all my failings and doubt, with you all around me it feels like…”

“Home.” Enjolras says in the same moment. 

Grantaire nods, and starts as he feels Enjolras take his hand. For a long moment they sit, a world of things unsaid between them.

Eventually, Grantaire breaks the silence. “Please rest.” He asks. 

Wearily, Enjolras nods and lies back, but doesn’t release Grantaire’s hand. Grantaire sits for a while longer, watching him, watching the flush creep incrementally along his throat once more but he does, finally, seem to drop into a somewhat restless sleep. Grantaire gently peels Enjolras’ hand from his and gets up, leaving the door ajar as he pilfers the kitchen cupboards for the makings of lunch. 

This is remarkably easy, as Combeferre has already made provisions; all Grantaire needs to do is heat the broth and water for tea which he sets about doing.

A soft noise pricks his ears, and he turns immediately, hyper aware in case Enjolras calls him but he still startles to see Enjolras leaning against the doorframe to his bedroom as if it’s the only thing holding him up, which it likely is. 

“Enjolras…what are you…” Grantaire begins, but cuts himself short when Enjolras’ knees buckle, sending him sliding down the wall and Grantaire is vaulting across the living room to catch him. 

“What are you doing out of bed?” He hisses, unable to keep the scolding from his tone.

Enjolras turns to look at him, frowning in confusion. “The rally…the rally is today…” he says.

“Yes, but you can’t go. You’re not well, remember?”

Enjolras blinks. “Not well?”

“No. You have a fever.”

“A fever?” Enjolras echoes. 

“Yes. That’s why you ought to be in bed. Come on…” He slings Enjolras’ arm around his shoulders and helps him up and back to bed. He can feel the heat radiating from Enjolras through his nightshirt and his own layers. 

“I feel strange.”

“I know. Fever, remember.” Grantaire says as soothingly as he can manage. Enjolras sits on the bed and looks lost. “Into bed. Come on.” Grantaire repeats, and taps Enjolras’ legs when he fails to move. Sluggishly, Enjolras complies and picks his legs up to slide them back under the covers. “You’ll feel better with a bit of food in your belly, but you need to stay in bed whilst I fetch it, alright?”

Enjolras nods, still baffled, but let’s Grantaire push him down. Grantaire is wary to leave him again, but he needs to otherwise the broth will burn on the little stovetop. Despite his quick actions – he almost has everything onto a tray – Enjolras reappears in the main room, wobbling but apparently determined. 

“I have to…” He says, and doubles over coughing. “I have to…have to go. The others…they…”

Grantaire takes his elbows and begins to guide him back to bed again. “You can’t go anywhere, Enjolras.”

“But…”

“But nothing. You’re ill.” Grantaire reiterates patiently. 

“No. No…no…” Enjolras mutters. “No!” He throws off Grantaire’s hands with a surprising strength considering. “Something’s wrong…I…they need me there…I…”

“Nothing’s wrong. Combeferre and Courfeyrac can manage one rally without you.” Grantaire says, trying to squash the panic rising in his chest as he takes Enjolras’ hands.

“Something’s going to happen…they’re going to get hurt…”

“Everyone’s fine. No one’s getting hurt. Please, back in bed before you hurt yourself.” Grantaire pleads. “Please, Apollo.”

“Apollo?” Enjolras repeats. “I have to…protect them…must protect…I need to…it’s…it’s my job. They’re…” 

“Fine.” Grantaire says. “They’re fine.”

Enjolras is muttering to himself but allows Grantaire put him to bed a second time. Grantaire pours a glass of water from the pitcher on the nightstand. 

“Drink this.” Grantaire presses him, hoping water might cool him down, bring rationality back. 

Enjolras turns away, wide eyes looking up at Grantaire. “What is it?”

“Just water. Please…”

Enjolras drinks, letting Grantaire hold the glass. Grantaire can see his hands trembling, twisting a blanket around his fingers. Wetting the nearest cloth his hand lands upon he presses it to Enjolras forehead. He turns to leave, intending to grab the tray and return before Enjolras can summon the energy to get up again but it stopped by Enjolras’ hand seizing his sleeve. 

“They’re safe?” Enjolras asks him desperately.

“They’re safe.”

“Do you promise?”

Grantaire’s breath hitches in his chest not only because Enjolras is putting all of his trust in him, of all people, who has let him down, but because to promise would be to lie. The last rally Les Amis had held had ended badly with blood spilled, a head injury, bruised ribs and a myriad of cuts and bruises; courtesy of several over ‘enthusiastic’ gendarmes..

“I promise.” Grantaire says as sincerely as he can, and hope to whatever gods he doesn’t believe in that it’s true.

Enjolras is already getting out of bed by the time Grantaire returns, only seconds later, with the tray. Grantaire sets it down quickly and takes Enjolras’ wrists. 

“No, no. You can’t. Enjolras, you can’t. You must stay in bed. Please.”

“I have to help them. Please, let me go.”

But Grantaire doesn’t though Enjolras twists in his grip. “I can’t. You’re not well. Please, just let me look after you.”

“But Combeferre…”

“Combeferre is at the rally in your stead. He’s fine, they’re all absolutely fine. Please believe me. You’re going to make yourself worse if you don’t rest, please….” Grantaire is aware he’s more or less begging, but he’s unsure what else to try. 

“Combeferre’s not hurt?”

Grantaire shakes his head. “Please lie down. Please.”

Relief floods through him as, at long last, Enjolras acquiesces. “But he’s not here. Combeferre…he’s not here.” Grantaire’s heart, which he often claims is two sizes too small, contracts at the painfully confused expression on Enjolras face, eyes wide and bewildered.

“No, he’ll be back soon. Do you remember? You asked him to go to the rally, and me to sit with you today.” Grantaire says gently, cupping Enjolras’ shoulders with his arm to ease him into bed properly.

Enjolras nods and lies back, but doesn’t relax yet. “Joly was here.”

Grantaire nods. “He was. Put you on bed rest.”

“Hate bed rest.”

“Don’t we all?”

Enjolras blinks at him and says “I’m not well,” half statement, half question.

“Not at all, I’m afraid. But you’ll be better in no time, if you stay in bed and eat something for me.”

Enjolras looks at him peculiarly for a moment, then shakes his head and blinks at Grantaire in confusion. “What…Grantaire…I…”

“You had a bit of a turn.” Grantaire says, relieved to see a little clarity return to Enjolras’ eyes.

“Oh. My apologies…I…”

“No. Don’t apologise. Just…please stay in bed?”

Enjolras looks around and it’s clear he doesn’t remember his escapades of the previous half an hour. 

“It’s alright, you haven’t done anything mortifying. And you have a raging fever to blame.”

Enjolras presses his palm to his forehead and moans. “I hate being ill.”

“Understandable. Are you hungry?”

Enjolras pauses for a moment, head tipped, considering. “A bit.” Thankfully, his stomach seems unaffected by illness and for that he can only be grateful.

Grantaire sets the tray over his lap, steadying it with one hand. 

“Sit with me?” Enjolras says, looking up at him. 

Grantaire hesitates for a moment before settling onto the edge of the bed facing Enjolras, one leg tucked under him. “Can you manage?” he asks, indicating the soup.

Enjolras nods and takes a piece of bread, crumbling between nimble fingers into pieces which he drops into the broth and submerges with a spoon. Grantaire grins, as he does the same to his own bowl. They eat in silence, comfortable now, and to Grantaire’s surprise Enjolras finishes all of it. Once they are both finished he sets the tray aside and feels Enjolras’ forehead.

“You’re still far too hot. You need to sleep.” Grantaire says.

Enjolras nods in agreement.

“You haven’t been resting well all morning, a little laudanum…”

“No laudanum.” Enjolras says quickly, eyes snapping open. He takes a breath, coughing lightly, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to snap, but…no laudanum.”

“It will help you rest…give you a break from the coughing…” Grantaire wheedles as Enjolras continues to cough, now hacking into a handkerchief, then leans back panting, eyes falling closed.

“No.”

Grantaire holds his hands up. “No laudanum. If you wouldn’t take it from Joly, I don’t see why you’d take it from me.”

Enjolras opens his eyes and presses his hand. “It’s not that. Please don’t take offence…I… Brandy, if I must.” He adds with a heavy sigh as his eyes close again.

Grantaire nods, accepting the compromise. “If I fetch it, will you stay in bed this time?”

“I’m being difficult, aren’t I?” 

“That you are, but it is of no matter. Foolish folly is forgiven in the face of fever.”

“Is that a quote?”

“I don’t believe so. Perhaps it should be.”

Enjolras chuckles but doesn’t reply. 

“Stay. Put. There. You.” Grantaire tells him awkwardly. “You know what I mean.”

Enjolras waves a hand at him intended to be assurance. True enough, whatever feverish energy had possessed him has vanished now and the languor has returned full force; he remains where he is, only shifting to cover his mouth when he sneezes.

Grantaire hums sympathetically when he returns to Enjolras weakly smothering several sneezes into his handkerchief. “Feeling sneezey again?” He asks, resuming his seat on the bed.

Enjolras glares at him over the top of the handkerchief during a pause then returns to wiping his nose with a wince. 

“Sorry, evidently.” Grantaire answers for himself. “Well, this should help with your throat and the coughing at any rate,”

“Thadk you.” He says graciously, and accepts the cup with a sniffle. “Oh. It’s warb.”

“Mixed with milk, might make it more palatable. Mystery to me, how you can dislike brandy, cognac, of all things, but alas…”

Enjolras glances at him, touched by his thoughtfulness.

“Are you chilled again?” Grantaire asks, noticing how he wraps his pale fingers around the sides of the cup. 

A nod as Enjolras buries his nose in the cup and sips. “Thadk you.” He says again and sighs in frustration. “Oh for heaved’s sake. Excuse be…”

Grantaire turns away to give him a moment to blow his nose, and winces in sympathy.

“Sleep then.” Grantaire says when Enjolras passes the cup back and settles down in bed.

“I’m really quite pathetic, aren’t I?” Enjolras asks miserably, rubbing his nose with a clean handkerchief.

“Not at all. Just ill. Do you think you can sleep now?” Grantaire asks and makes a show of tucking the covers over him, adding the extra blanket from earlier. Enjolras shivers a little but nods twisting onto his side. Grantaire rubs his arm to generate heat at the shiver, then, hesitantly still, brushes Enjolras’ hair back from his face. Enjolras sighs and the pain lines around his eyes smooth a little at the gesture. Emboldened, Grantaire repeats it. Enjolras is asleep in moments.

Ever so gingerly, Grantaire stands up, so as to not shift the bed at all, and return to his chair to continue with Jehan’s anthology on his own.


	5. Nightmareish Afternoon

Enjolras is restless as he dozes, despite his moment of clarity the fever is still burning him up so as he tosses Grantaire sets down Jehan’s book and takes up the cloth, wringing it out before applying it to Enjolras’ hot face. 

Enjolras back arches a little, pressing himself into Grantaire’s touch through the cloth as he does so, feverish words tripping from his lips.

Despite Grantaire diligence in trying to cool him down, the twitching restless sleep soon deteriorates into thrashing and Grantaire is once again swept over with worry as Enjolras twists and turns, searching for any part of his sheets not already warm from his overheated skin. 

Grantaire finds himself back on the bed, murmuring to Enjolras and desperately confused as to whether he should wake him or not from what is clearly a fever dream, a nightmare. Enjolras’ hand shoots out suddenly, and Grantaire has to dodge quickly to avoid being punched in the face. He’s fighting, whatever is going on in that dream, Enjolras is fighting someone, something. Even in sleep, even ill, Enjolras fights on.

As he vacillates between waking him and not, Enjolras cries out, in pain, anguish, something Grantaire doesn’t like.

“No! Stop!” he’s shouting, as much as he can, but with his voice so hoarse it cracks quickly until it’s nothing more than a pained, forceful whisper. “Please. Don’t….they’re…”

Grantaire takes his wrists; he is pushing something away from him, pleading with it. 

“Hurt. Hurt. Hurt. Don’t!”

“Wake up, Apollo. Come on, wake up. No one’s hurting you. You’re alright. You’re in your bed. Wake up.” Grantaire says urgently, trying to keep Enjolras’ arms from hurting either one of them. 

 

“Don’t hurt them!” Enjolras cries suddenly in a voiceless scream. 

“Enjolras, wake up. You’re dreaming. No one’s hurting anyone…”

Enjolras arches up off the bed, fighting the dream, fighting against Grantaire, trying to escape the fever.

“Please. Apollo, come on.” Grantaire pleads and transfers both Enjolras’ wrists to one hand to shake his shoulder. “Wake up, please wake up.” It seems cruel, after a day spent unable to sleep to wake him, but crueller still to leave him trapped in his own mind with his tormentors. He’s about to take drastic action; Enjolras hasn’t responded to his hand brushing over his cheek, nor a gentle slap, when Enjolras himself saves himself and starts awake, sitting bolt upright and panting for air. 

He’s desperately sucking great lungfuls of air into his chest, the effort of which sends him into a coughing fit, robbing what little breath he had. Grantaire, shocked at his sudden return to consciousness, tentatively puts his arms around the other man and rubs both hands along his back, feeling his muscles strain and ripple under his hands as he tries to breathe between coughs.

“Christ. Enjolras, breathe. Please breathe.”

At the first sign of a break in the coughing, Grantaire dives for a glass as Enjolras sucks in desperate breath.

“Here, can you drink?” Grantaire says, holding the glass so Enjolras can drink. At first he coughs it up immediately, but a second try is more successful; he coughs a few more times, until, finally, the fit relents. 

“Take this, quickly.” Grantaire orders, holding out a spoon with a dose of cough syrup. Enjolras complies but their timing is atrocious, and as Enjolras’ hand flys up to cover his mouth as he coughs again the spoon goes flying, sending thick, viscous syrup down Grantaire’s shirt. 

Enjolras is wheezing awfully as he tries to apologise, still coughing. Grantaire shushes him, and takes his hands while he takes the second spoonful of medicine and, this time, it goes down and, after a moment, the coughing, finally, ceases. Enjolras drops back onto the pillows breathing hard and exhausted.

Grantaire lets out his own breath, but startles when Enjolras’ hand closes around his wrist. 

“The others…” he croaks, wheeze painfully audible in his voice. 

“They’re alright, Enjolras. It was just a dream.”

Enjolras breathes out. “Just a dream?”

“Just a dream. They’re at the rally, remember?” Grantaire asks, terrified for a moment they’ll be back to the all-consuming confusion of before.

But Enjolras nods. “Yes.” He says, passing a hand over his face. “Yes, I remember.” But he is still white, and shaking. “Your shirt…I am sorry…”

“Tis but a shirt. It is of no matter.”

“At least take one of mine, in replacement. You cannot stay covered in that vile stuff.”

“I suppose not.”

“Please, there are clean shirts in the armoir, the right.”

Reluctantly Grantaire releases Enjolras’ hands and gets up, selecting a shirt at random and changing into it with a minimum of fuss. Enjolras has turned his head, white fingers pressed to white lips as he does so and glances up at Grantaire now that he shift back to the bedside, standing awkwardly, unsure whether to resume his seat on the bed, or the chair; to give Enjolras space, to talk or to not. Enjolras reaches out to him, hand tightening around his arm. “Stay.” He says quietly, a shade desperate, a sound which unsettles Grantaire, because he’s never heard desperation in Enjolras’ tone before. “Please stay…”

So Grantaire does, and resumes his perch on the edge of the bed, his hip pressed to Enjolras’. “Dieu, you’re trembling.” Grantaire says, extending a hand towards him but unsure what to do with it. 

Enjolras curls in on himself as he nods, pressing his free hand to his forehead, the other remains where it is on Grantaire’s arm and he does not pull away from Grantaire’s side. 

When Enjolras drops his hand from his head, Grantaire replaces it with his own. “Fever’s no better.”

Enjolras closes his eyes and leans into Grantaire’s touch, still trembling. 

“Do you…”

“The rally.” Enjolras says soundlessly; his voice is completely broken. “And the last one. People got hurt…I thought…Dieu, I thought…”

“You thought it was happening again.”

Enjolras nods, pressing both hands to his lips now, a shaky breath quivering on his lips.

“Would you…” he sighs and shakes his head. “I’m sorry, it’s this damn fever…”

“What is it?”

“Would you sit with me?” he says, almost silent, with a rueful, shy smile.

All the hesitance in Grantaire evaporates and he smiles, taking a moment to cup Enjolras’ jaw. He is surprised and moved by the tiniest hint of dewiness in the corner of Enjolras’ eyes. 

He gets up and pats Enjolras’ knee. “Move over.”

Enjolras shifts over with a soft moan as his aching muscles protest as Grantaire rearranges his pillows behind him again. Grantaire settles next to him, sharing the stack of pillows and lifts his arm so Enjolras can lean into his side. Grantaire is a creature of dichotomy, and this is no different; he at once relishes this closeness, this new found intimacy, but is terrified in the same breath.

“Thank you.” Enjolras whispers.


	6. The Debrief That Wasn't

The apartment is silent when Combeferre and Courfeyrac reach it much later that afternoon.

Combeferre hesistantly pushes the door to Enjolras's room. Courfeyrac darts across to join him at a quiet gesture of his hand and leans around the door too. 

Enjolras and Grantaire are both fast asleep on the bed. A book lies abandoned inches from Grantaire's outstretched fingers, the other hand is lost in a mass of blond curls. 

The room is in complete disarray. Cups and glasses litter the surfaces interspersed with the various physic bottles Joly left that morning. A basin sits on the chair by the bed, several clothes strewn about it and on the bed itself which is a tangled mess of sheets and blankets and legs.

Enjolras' head rests on Grantaire's shoulder and the only thing stopping them from slumping sideways is the support of the other. Enjolras is humming slightly. 

"I think Enjolras might have worn Grantaire out. .." Combeferre whispers, voice mirthful.   
Courfeyrac stifles a snort and nods as he realises with a start what tune Enjolras is humming. 

"Is he..."

"Humming La Marseillaise?" Combeferre finishes having reached the same conclusion.   
Courfeyrac nods numbly. 

"Is that. ..?"

"Normal?"

Another numb nod.

"No idea. Who knows with Enjolras. I expect it’s the fever." 

Courfeyrac stuffs his fist into his mouth to keep from laughing as Combeferre picks his way across the room and bend over the bed to gently press the back of his hand to Enjolras' forehead. 

He nods and takes a moment to straighten the bed clothes and drape a blanket over Grantaire before returning to Courfeyrac. 

"He feels a little cooler, thank goodness."

"Indeed. What about Grantaire?"

Combeferre tips his head to the side considering the two. "Let them sleep. I'm sure poor R's exhausted."

Courfeyrac has retreated to the sofa, to stuff a cushion into his mouth and giggle into it. Combeferre is sorely tempted to join him when a soft, hoarse voice says his name.

"Hello." Combeferre says softly as he turns back to the pair on the bed.

Enjolras is awake and shushes Combeferre with a finger to his lips and a tiny nod of his head to indicate Grantaire, still fast asleep. 

"He fell asleep. I think I must have made him weary,” Enjolras whispers so Combeferre cannot tell the condition of his voice. 

He picks his way across the room, strewn with discarded cloths and plates and glasses and perches delicately beside Enjolras. 

"How are you feeling?" He whispers as he checks Enjolras' temperature. 

"Better, I think." Enjolras whispers. "My throat still hurts awfully and I can't keep from coughing."

"You feel cooler." Combeferre replies, fingers now gently probing Enjolras’ neck. "Say ah..."  
Enjolras does so, but makes little sound. 

"Rather red. You might be abed a few days yet. I’m sorry." Combeferre diagnoses, squeezing Enjolras' hand. 

Enjolras nods. "It's alright. I don't feel well enough to even protest I'm afraid. I did so want to speak at the rally today. I hope you've come to tell me all about it as well as examine me."

"You were missed, of course. But Courfeyrac and Jehan took up your role admirably. Now, in terms of telling you all about it I've run here ahead of the others to check on you. As you're about to receive an influx of visitors who are most keen to see you and you, I imagine, are eager to hear their reports on the day. Only if you are feeling up to it." Combeferre finishes sternly and can't resist pressing his hand to Enjolras' forehead once more. 

"I think I can manage so long as no one minds my sniffling. I'm sure I sound and look a fright."

"You should still rest your voice. And you do feel much cooler so I see no reason to object. Now, were you good for Grantaire today? "

Enjolras colours. "I hope so. I'm afraid I don't remember much since this morning."

"You seem to have worn Grantaire out at any rate, as you said. And considering the state of your room and the height of your fever this morning I'd say you've been delirious."

Enjolras blushes even deeper. "I suppose I was. Oh dear. Poor R."

"He seems content enough there." Combeferre says, looking over to where Enjolras' fingers are still toying with Grantaire's dark curls. 

If possible Enjolras' cheeks darken and his disentangles his fingers. "I...ah...I think I might still be a little feverish."

"You are. But much improved. Are you sure you're up to the others descending on your sick bed? "

Enjolras nods. "Yes. I want to see them. And I want to hear about today. But perhaps. .." he pauses and looks about the room. "Perhaps I could move to the sofa? That room is larger after all... and tidier. Plus, I shouldn't like to wake Grantaire. He looks tired."

"I think we can manage that. They are bringing supper if you're hungry?"

Enjolras nods and begins to disentangle himself from the twisted sheets and Grantaire. He stops suddenly and looks up sheepishly at Combeferre. 

"Might I also be allowed trousers?"

 

 

Combeferre hovers as Enjolras makes his way to the sofa, and succeeds without dizziness of loss of consciousness, a marked improvement since earlier in the day. 

Courfeyrac is once more dispatched to deliver the message that Enjolras is well enough to receive visitors, and once more, Joly arrives in short order.

“You ought to be in bed.” Joly says before he’s even unwound his scarf the moment he steps into the apartment and see Enjolras ensconced in blankets on the sofa. 

“I’ve been in bed all day, I walked here by myself, and managed not to pass out, I think I’ll survive the perils of the sofa for a few hours.” Enjolras says, but smiles as Joly hurries over to him, concern writ in the lines of his face.

“You do seem a little better.” Joly gives him that, and goes about feeling Enjolras’ forehead and looking him over for any sign of deterioration with utmost concentration. “And your temperature’s dropped. Thank goodness. I’m relieved.”

“As am I. I seem to have exhausted Grantaire however.”

“What have you done with him?” Joly asked, a slight, amused smile playing at the corner of his lips.

Enjolras chuckles. “Nothing untoward, I assure you. He’s asleep on my bed at present.”

“As much as I’m glad to see you feeling better- you looked so miserable this morning – you still sound dreadful. I don’t want the others to exhaust you.”

“They won’t. I shall sit here quietly and listen to all of you tell me about that rally and be the model patient.”

Joly snorts at that. “I’d like to see it. If you’ve exhausted Grantaire to the point of mid-afternoon sleeping, I’d imagine you’ve been rather a handful today.”

Enjolras flushes. “Combeferre said much the same thing.”

“We know you too well.”

“Enough of me and my habits, where are the others, did you run here to beat them to fuss over me?”

It is Joly’s turn to flush. “I have been worrying about you all day. Perhaps I should have been worrying about Grantaire.”

“We survived each other largely unscathed. As much as I appreciate your concern for me, I wish you wouldn’t worry so.”

“I can’t help it. The world is a wonderful and joyous place but it is full of nasty ailments and diseases and I can’t abide the thought of one of my friends being carried off in such a way. I can’t bear to see any one of you in any pain at all.”

“Joly, you are the dearest and most cheerful soul I have ever met but I hope you have a little more faith in my constitution than to fear I’d be carried off by a mere head cold?” 

“Of course I do. It is not the head cold I fear, but what if it moves to your chest, or you were to get chilled and develop pneumonia, or…”

“Joly, Joly…” Enjolras seizes Joly’s hands where they are twisting in his lap and presses them between his own. “I’m fine. Fine. Look, I’m fine.”

Joly looks up at him, a little shaken by the fatalistic turn of his own thoughts and meets Enjolras eyes, looking back at him in concern. “I’m fine.” He repeats.

Joly nods, and presses a hand to Enjolras’ forehead again, the other gently cupping his jaw and lets out a breath he hadn’t realised he’d taken. “You’re fine.”

“I will be.” Enjolras says, smiling.

“Yes, you will be. I’m sorry, Enjolras, I get so caught up in…worrying, sometimes that it gets away from me. I can’t bear the thought of anything at all happening to you, any of you. I said that before, and I repeat it fervently because it is true.”

Enjolras feels a shiver run up his spine at Joly’s well-intended words. He cannot bear the thought either, but bear it he must because in the growing danger of days to come the likelihood of one of them being hurt or worse increases. 

“Oh, are you cold?” Joly adds, catching the shiver. 

“Just a shiver. I am warm enough with you here beside me, and it will certainly warm up with the rest of them all squeezed in here.” Enjolras replies, pressing Joly’s hand. 

“Let me fetch another blanket for you anyway.” Joly says getting up, which converse to his intent does chill Enjolras as his warmth disappears from where their hips had been pressed together. 

“I’m really quite all right, Joly. Come back and sit down, please.”

“I have it now, here we are…” Joly says, having retrieved a blanket from another chair and now tossing it over Enjolras’ legs and smoothing it down. 

“Thank you then, for your thoughtfulness.”

Joly does sit back down, Enjolras still grateful for his warmth despite the added blanket.   
Their peaceful moment is soon disrupted by the arrival of the rest of their friends, headed by Courfeyrac bursting in through the front door in a burst of cold.

“Joly I have never seen walk quite so fast as you have done just now…  
“Enjolras! Heavens, you look terrible, are you feeling any better at all?” He exclaims, divesting himself of his scarf and making a beeline for Enjolras, and by proximity, the fire. 

“Thank you, Courfeyrac, for that wonderful observation. I am improved from this morning, yes.”

“Goodness, you sound worse than you look. I certainly hope you feel better than both!”

“Oh it’s lovely and warm in here, thank goodness, I’m chilled to the bone.” Jehan says, shivering in his coat.

Joly gives him sharp look. “I do hope you haven’t caught a chill as well, Jehan,” he says voice tinged with concern. 

Jehan looks alarmed for a moment at the look of predatory worry on Joly’s face and raises his hands. “No, no. I just meant it’s a relief to be in out of the cold. I’m quite alright.”

Joly looks less than convinced and turns his gaze on each of them in various stages of removing outer clothes their pink cheeks and noses. “At any rate, I think hot wine all around might be called for.”

There is a cheer of assent at that which warms Enjolras down to his toes and to the very centre of his chest. Jehan, now relieved of his coat by Courfeyrac who seems to have adopted the role of host in the absence of Combeferre, who has disappeared, and Enjolras’ incapacitation, folds himself to his knees on the floor by the arm of the sofa Enjolras and Joly occupy. 

“Are you really, truly alright, Enjolras?” He asks so softly Enjolras barely hears him over the cacophony of the others milling about.

Jehan is so sincere and sweet in all things it is impossible to lie to him and more impossible still to say anything which might make him worry so Enjolras smiles as warmly as he can and squeezes Jehan’s shoulder. “Full of cold, alas, but yes, I’ll be alright.”

“Oh good. I’ve been ever so worried. We all have.” Jehan says, smiling with heart felt relief and taking Enjolras’ hand from his shoulder to clasp it tightly.

Bahorel appears at Jehan’s side, looming over both of them before taking a seat on the arm of the sofa and clapping Enjolras on the shoulder. “Colds are rotten things; see that you give this one what for, eh, Enjolras?”

“Bahorel, only you could liken fighting a cold to actually fighting.” Jehan says. 

“Oh I don’t know. I think it’s a fair analogy,” Bossuet says, settling himself into the armchair across from Enjolras’ sofa. “It’s a battle alright; instead of bullets and blood it’s all fevers and sneezing.”

Accordingly at that moment Enjolras’ nose chooses that moment to tickle irresistibly and he sneezes forcefully. 

“Precisely.” Bossuet says, waving a hand at Enjolras as he recovers, wiping his nose. 

“I never said it wasn’t a fair analogy,” Jehan puts it, still kneeling by Enjolras’ side. “Just that it is so very Bahorel to liken a cold to a battle. And now you too, Bossuet. It’s rather poetic.”

“You can add me to that list too, if you like Jehan.” Courfeyrac says, settling on the end of the sofa opposite Enjolras who curls his legs up to give him room. “Though, I think I might take a cold over a gendarme, I’d say.”

“We might not have a choice soon,” Feuilly adds taking the armchair opposite Bossuet next to Bahorel and Jehan and holding his hands up to the fire to warm them. “If the rally today is anything to go by; Paris is fast becoming a powder keg.” 

“Yes, thank you Feuilly. As it’s me currently doing battle, do you think we could talk about something else? The rally, perhaps? What you have all gathered here to tell me about, I hope.” Enjolras says, rather keen to get Feuilly’s reading on the day.

“Oh, Enjolras won’t you let us fuss just a little and assuage our concerns over your health?” Courfeyrac says dramatically, laying a hand on Enjolras knee.

“I assure you all, I will be quite well soon enough.” He insists and promptly undermines himself with a fit of sneezing that has them all wincing in sympathy.

“You see, we had to be sure you weren’t on your death bed. Whatever would we do without you, fearless leader?” Courfeyrac says, tone teasing and light hearted but his gravity is conveyed through the tight squeeze he gives Enjolras’ knees.

Enjolras plays along and throws him a look, though he does cover one of Courfeyrac’s hands with one of his; his other is still in the possession of Jehan.

“Can’t get rid of me that easily, I’m afraid.”

“Thank the lord. We’d be quite at a loss. A rope without a tether. A carriage without its horse. A fire without its flame. A…”

“Oh do stop, honestly” Enjolras mutters, laughing while rolling his eyes in fond exasperation.

“Bossuet, you are in a poetic mood today.” Says Jehan, settling himself more comfortably on the floor at Enjolras side, clearly not intending to move.

“Ah. All down to you, I think, hearing you speak Jehan. You were excellent.”

Jehan blushes, glancing down. Enjolras squeezes his hand, a silent agreement of Bossuet’s compliment; he’s always admired Jehan’s way with words.

“I am so very sorry I couldn’t be there today myself.” Enjolras says seriously.

“Nonsense. Nothing to be sorry about.” Bahorel pipes up, still on the arm of the sofa at Enjolras’ head, hand still resting on his shoulder. “You were sorely missed, but would have been immensely proud of Jehan and Courfeyrac playing your part admirably, if my humble opinion be of any worth at all.” He says with a grin. 

“You know that it is, Bahorel. Now, are you all going to tell me how it went or not?”

“Of course, don’t fret. If only to shut you up, I thought you were meant to be resting that voice, hmm?” Courfeyrac puts in. 

Enjolras gives him that and stays quiet, merely inclining his head for him to continue.

“Very good. Firstly, where has Combeferre gotten himself to? There is little point starting without him.”

“Indeed, yes.” Joly adds and looks over his shoulder as if Combeferre is hiding himself somewhere. 

“Oh!” Bossuet says, slapping a hand to his forehead. “My apologies. I had put some wine on to warm, after Joly mentioned it, but thought it might be best if someone else assist with the serving. Otherwise we’d all be scalded, no doubt.”

“Very wise, my dear Lesgle. I shall go.” Joly says, and gets to his feet. He presses a hand to Bossuet’s shoulder as he squeezes between the armchair and corner of the sofa, clambering over Courfeyrac’s legs as he goes. 

“Of course you know the two of them will be in conclave over your health.” Courfeyrac says to Enjolras. 

Enjolras nods, sighing but smiling fondly. “I am sure they are.”

Combeferre and Joly appear together, heads together and each carrying a tray with several glasses. 

“Hot wine.” Combeferre announces. “To chase the chill from your bones.” 

They all accept a glass gratefully, and the room is soon awash with the scent of warm wine and cloves. Combeferre reserves two glasses as Enjolras shifts, pulling his legs up and tucking them underneath himself so Combeferre can sit between him and Courfeyrac. He has to release Courfeyrac’s hand to do so, who makes a small noise of objection and satisfies himself by leaning into Combeferre’s side. Combeferre smiles and passes Enjolras his glass of wine, who thanks him with a smile. Joly perches on the arm of Bossuet’s armchair, both of their glasses in his hands.

“Combeferre is here, will you now, please, tell me all about the rally?” He says, sighing over a sip of wine which soothes his aching throat. 

Combeferre nudges him. “Rest, you.”

“I have been trying to tell him that all day long.” A voice says from across the room. 

Grantaire is standing in the door to Enjolras’ bedroom, looking sleep mussed and dishevelled. 

Enjolras, for his part, has the decency to look sheepish. “It appears I wore you out.” He says softly. 

Grantaire comes closer, eyes fixed on Enjolras. “You are…quite exhausting.” He says, and finally looks away, reviewing the seating arrangements. 

“I am not surprised that Grantaire appears once the wine is on hand!” Bahorel says merrily. 

Grantaire shrugs and picks his way between Bahorel, Feuilly and Jehan to plop himself down opposite Jehan, by Enjolras’ legs, and stretches his legs contentedly before him. 

“I have one here for you.” Joly says, handing him a glass. “You might not have been out in the cold, or already down with one, but who can resist hot wine on a winter’s day.”

“This reminds me, it shall soon be Christmas.” Jehan muses, eye lighting up with the thought.

“Oh yes.” Courfeyrac breathes. “I’m far too excited already.”

“You are always too excited, Courfeyrac.” Grantaire mutters, sipping his wine and reclining on the rug. 

Courfeyrac eyes him. “Isn’t that…are you wearing Enjolras’ shirt?” He asks, giving Grantaire, the Enjolras a sly look. 

“Wipe that look from your face, Courfeyrac. You absolute lech. Your best friend knocked his medicine over me in his delirium, I’ll have you know.” 

Enjolras cheeks flush to match his nose. 

“Was he a terrible patient?” Joly asks.

Grantaire considers the matter for a moment. Enjolras focuses intently on his glass, grateful for Combeferre’s arm which finds its way around his shoulders; he might not remember whatever he might have raved about to Grantaire that day, but he can imagine.

“He was rather insistent on escaping at times,” Grantaire says eventually, “I can’t tell you how very much he wanted to be at this rally with all of you, and I think I have heard the majority of the speech he intended to give. It sounded glorious, you should all be sorry to have missed out. It was quite the oration, despite the lack of voice, and it did lack some coherence, but that’s to be expected as he was delirious at the time. And in that vein, one never knows quite what they are saying in the throes of a fever so I think I shall leave it at that. What was said in the sick room, stays in the sick room.”

Enjolras has, at this point, hidden his face in Combeferre’s shoulder but opens one eye to look at Grantaire warily, but grateful he seems to be stopping there.

Grantaire meets his gaze and smiles. It is a true smile, not half veiled in a smirk, or twisted bitterly by cynicism. “I’m thoroughly worn out, but I had a rather pleasant day, all told. And I am sincerely glad you seem to be feeling better, dearest Apollo.”

A brief flash of a conversation, and Grantaire’s face stripped bare and remarkable in its rare, raw honesty crosses his mind at the nickname. Whatever had been said, however little Enjolras remembers, they are both home, surrounded by these friends.

“Thank you, Grantaire. For looking after me. I feel much better for it.” Enjolras says, quietly, but as honest as Grantaire has been with him. “It means a lot.”

Courfeyrac chuckles warmly. “You must still be feverish Enjolras.” He says, teasing and Enjolras bats him lazily. 

“Oh, be quiet Courfeyrac.” 

“Nevertheless, you are still ill so hush, drink your wine and we will tell you about the day’s events before you are completely worn out.” Combeferre says, ghosting a hand over Enjolras’ forehead. 

Enjolras smiles and rests his head against Combeferre’s shoulder, happy enough to let the sounds of his friend’s excited chatter wash over him. His throat aches, his head even more so and he often loses the track of the conversation thanks to the fever or an ill-timed sneeze but as he thinks over what he does remember of his day with Grantaire, and occasionally catches his eye, he thinks there are much worse ways to spend a day fighting a cold. The room is warm, he is pressed securely between Courfeyrac and Combeferre, Jehan is using his knees as a head rest and the others are comfortably close, talking in low murmurs as he eventually drifts to sleep. 

They never do get to talking about the rally that night.


End file.
